Mortified is when a bunch of adults go onstage and read awkward diary entries from when they were kids to an encouraging audience.

The set I saw last night was good. Intimidatingly good. These people were once bona fide dorks, nerds, geeks, freaks, and dweebs.

I on the other hand, sat there in shame realizing I could never own my adolescent awkwardness as well as they did.

I was a nerd alright, but a color-inside-the-lines nerd. I had a great childhood. Full of non-angst and zero boy drama. In fact, I wasn’t even sure I liked boys. I knew I didn’t like girls, but I just didn’t like anyone other than myself. If I thought I could have married myself, I would have. Of course that led to my mother quite seriously asking me when I was 15 in a Subway restaurant parking lot if I was gay. I nervously scoffed it off, but wondered that if I was indeed in love with myself, did that make me gay? These were questions that trouble teens during their burgeoning sexuality, but I have to say that at 27, I think I may have had the right idea.

I mean, don’t all kids masturbate to a shirtless photo of Elton John on their wall? Don’t all kids force their friends to watch Last Tango in Paris in their dark basement? Burn a cork and draw giant Jewish eyebrows on their face and do impersonations of Rod Serling in front of the mirror? Have conversations with their dog? Walk around with a tampon jammed half-way up their cootch? Buy suits at 13 so they can look like Dana Scully? Play every day in a cemetery? Stick whoopee cushions in their underwear? Sleep next to a Jeff Goldblum action figure? Dress up as various characters on Kids in the Hall and tape hours and hours of skit reenactments? Write thinly disguised school plays about off-centered young women with extreme passion for pop culture referencing?

My father sent the above photo to me this week thinking that it would somehow bring a smile to my face? The body of the message? “What a good kid.”

“What a fucking gawky-ass kid who dressed like Paula Poundstone” sounds more like it. Why is it that parents loved you most when you looked aesthetically least pleasing and most like a Muppet man-child? My Mom still won’t take down my over-sized glamor shot from when I was 13. No matter how much I plead with her, the framed example of what furry caterpillars making a home above the eyes of Woody Allen if he were a pre-pubescent girl, will never be taken down from the entrance way to her house.

I’m thinking of auditioning for the next Mortified, but not sure if I have enough good stories or can act in front of anything other than a mirror.

While there was some intra-family angst (which did not come to a head until everyone was adult), it is good to see that I was not the only one to enjoy their awkward teenage years.

While I did call them 'the era of my discontent', it had more to do with why the world insisted on trying to make me doubt myself. I have never been able to question myself on the validity of any of my ill-advised forays into the ultraworld. Either I do something or I don't.

I never understood why my Mom was worried about my sexuality. It was not that I did not like girls as much as they DID NOT like me. Though my darling brother evolved from being Diana Prince and twirling around to become Wonder Woman, to defending himself with karate chops a la Miss Piggy, I was the one she physically forced into the Men's Bible study sessions and made me do a 'home report' on the book 'As A Man Thinketh'. Even though I would try to play ice hockey (my darling brother was once a national figure skater) and box, I was the one she was concerned about the most. Go figure.

I am sure there were some funny and awkward memories of my teenage years, but I don't really have any that stand out. I was alright.

And I thought Dana Scully was hot.

Now as talented a writer you are, I am sure that you can get up and strut your stuff. Oh, though I do listen to NPR (member, WUOM), we don't get Mortified. Every summer they but 'The Moth' but no Mortified. You will have to let me know when to listen for it and I will have to connect to your station on line.

I say do it! P.S. Your diary entries from adolescence can't be any more bland than mine, which include but are not limited to me praying to God that he says it's OK for me to watch Dirty Dancing with little girlfriends at a slumber party.